Mostly Human
by JonasGrant
Summary: He rose from the slums, but is no devil, she fell from the sky but is by no means an angel. They pretty much ran into each other halfway and now they're stuck together; an ancient tyrant and a hero that isn't one. What else could you possibly ask for? A plot? There's one too! Granted, it was written by Sheogorath and in dragon speech, but it's there!
1. Chapter 1

The Skorvo farm, in between Whiterun and the old fort, had stood within spitting distance of the Western Watchtower for as long as any of the guards could recall, and in all that time, no one had ever tried to purchase it from the Jarl. Now that the Watchtower laid in ruins and the fort was overtaken by bandits, it proved even less attractive.

It thus came as a surprise when a young Nord, with his fresh freckled face and short, rust colored hairs had offered to acquire the place, though for a cost much lesser than was asked.

It was still a decent amount of gold for a boy barely old enough to shave, and the Steward demanded he pay half the sum right away before any agreement was made. The Nord produced the full payment right away and was allowed to settle on his new land.

The young man now walked his property under the moonlight, his face imperturbable as he took in all the work that would have to be done.

The land was uneven, dotted with rocks and decently sized trees that would take months to remove. The house… Well, it could as well be summed up as a pile of planks, and the river's shore crawled with mudcrabs.

But the land had been untouched for decades, he reminded himself, and the river would teem with fishes and… Well, mudcrabs made for some fine stew.

Horses were expensive, so he'd bought a cow from the town's market and used it to carry seeds, tools and what little belongings he hadn't sold to buy everything else, it had taken him an hour to strap everything in place, but merely five minutes were needed to remove everything.

First of all, the boy picked up every piece of wood from the old farmhouse and threw it in a big pile, which he then ignited with an oil lamp. The flames lit up everything on twenty meters and warded off the cold, letting him get to work.

Wearing nothing but a pair of ragged trousers and boots, he grabbed a shovel and pickaxe, the closest thing to a hoe he could afford, and found a ten meters square area without rocks or trees he could begin to cultivate.

He'd seen a lot of farmers work their fields and his own father had tried to show him, years ago, so although he almost brained himself with the pickaxe twice and managed to sprain a muscle in his left butt cheek, his work was not for nothing.

His meager arms grew weak within minutes, whenever he thought he'd gotten the hang of it, a rock or root would get in the way and drain always more energy out of him. The shovel would dig in all the way with easy, like a sharp axe through flesh, for five hits, then, just as his guard was down and he put more energy in the thrust, the Nord would strike something hard, sending shockwaves through his tired arms.

But that did not stop him, nor did it detract from his enthusiasm and, by dawn, he had potato seeds in the ground at regular intervals, even though the trenches they were buried in looked more like waves during a bad storm and the edges of the "garden" were an interesting geometrical figure half way between a square and a squashed butterfly.

The young Nord, having neither a bed or something close to a roof, wrapped himself in itchy wool blankets and passed out by the dwindling fire.

That day, in spite of the rain and cold, the Nord slept like a log, a dreamless slumber deeper than the Sea Of Ghosts.

Even as a giant and its herd of Mammoth stopped by to warm itself at the fire, disapproving of its host's lack of proper care for the one thing warding off predators, the boy remained unconscious. The night had drained all of his forces and he only woke up by sunset, drenched, cold and numb all over.

His first thought was on why the inferno a few steps away hadn't kept him warm and dry, but then, as he noticed the setting sun, another question arose; Why was it still burning?

Closer inspection revealed nothing useful. It was wood alright, but then he turned to the fields and something nudged at the back of his mind, something missing… But how could anything be missing if there was nothing there to begin with?

Dismissing the thought as his stomach threatened to end their relationship, he opened his provisions chest and warmed up some salted Horker meat… Then tore through a week's worth of food in minutes, before milking the cow and drinking a whole pint to compensate for all the spices and salt he'd just scoffed down.

All of his muscles ached, but it only made him feel prouder of his work.

His stomach now appeased, it was time for his mind to take over. He looked around once more for the source of his unease and found it right away; no trees nor boulders.

All of the local pine tree population had been uprooted and piled up on the opposite end of the fire, at least one of the things now fueling it, and every rock bigger than a man was now arranged at even distance of the fire, forming a perfect circle thirty meters wide. The Nord looked at this odd arrangement, his pint of milk in one hand, the other scratching a nascent beard.

He looked at the cow. "Did you do that?"

"Moo!"

Blinking twice, he sipped some more milk and shrugged, "Thanks?"

After looking around some more, however, he decided to be logical and… Well, drop the issue altogether. They had fields to plow and a house to build.

The cow did a good enough job pulling the plough and halfway through the night, satisfied with the state of his first field, he went from one to the other, deciding to use the mysterious pile of lumber as material for his home, using the smaller ones, cut in half, to build a floor on the rock bed just behind the old house, then the bigger one he stripped with his axe and used to build the frame, a very simple tent-like structure, its edges three meters too long for the floor.

He had helped build a boat once, but never a house, so he used the same technique here; axing another tree to a two meters beam, which he nailed to the floor and then to an edge of the frame before cutting off two meters off the excess a meter from where he'd secured that edge to the ground.

The Nord then used the new beam to repeat the process at the next edge and so on until he had a very shaky and hollow house.

More beams were stripped and affixed to the joints between walls and roof and, almost out of wood, the morning light now poking over the horizon and his stomach once again throwing a fit, he decided to stop and think about walls over a warm meal.

Slated Horker and milk were all he had to feed himself now, but soon, much sooner than he had expected, he would have potatoes, tomatoes, carrots and maize, perhaps eggs and cheese even!

His smile was as bright as the once again dwindling fire, which he remembered to feed a whole tree, the numbness in his limbs still present in places.

The boy wanted to sleep now, but decided against it. He needed walls before anything else, and for that, he would need stone and clay. But how to find the Septims without any cattle or crops to sell?

Chewing on his frugal meal in deep thought, he never noticed the two men coming up behind him until the tallest cleared his throat.

The boy had his axe in hand and faced the intruder in a heartbeat. Just an old man and his teenage son, both surprised at the sudden reaction, but not afraid.

"Sorry," Apologised the redhead, putting the axe back on the ground before taking the two steps to his guests, "did not hear you coming."

The elder smiled while the boy just gawked at the rocks surrounding them. Before his father could introduce them. The boy pointed to the closest boulder and asked, speaking as though someone had jammed a potato in his mouth, "How did yew get them like this?"

Saying that his cow did it seemed like a bad move, so he made something up. "Rolled them on logs."

"And yew dug them up yerself?"

"Yep."

The boys incredulity brought a smile to his father's face, "That's called hard work, Jorik, be glad we have people working out farm or you would have to do it too!" And he turned to the stranger, "I'm sorry, my name is Oleg Stern-Hearth, this is my son Jorik, and you are?"

"Sturnbjorn, my friends just call me Stubborn." Answered the boy with a smile of his own, as though reminiscing an old joke.

"Aye, I can see why!" He looked at the fields with approbation and a bit of envy, remembering his youth, before his fields were plowed by others and the reward was measured in sweat, not septims. "The Jarl insisted I come and see if you were some sort of spy or bandit."

Sturnbjorn' eyes widened at that, but Oleg just laughed and patted Sturnbjorn's shoulder, "Be at ease, my boy, no bandit would ever work this hard… With this in mind," He nodded to the shell of a house Stubborn had built, "you seem to be short on building materials," and then to the boy's bare chest, "and clothes. I'm make my report to the Jarl now, why don't you join me? We'll go see those crooks at the market together and see if we can find you an honest deal, what do you say?"

Embarrassment crept up his spine and turned his freckled face even redder as he admitted being completely out of septims. This earned him a loud and long belly laugh from the old man.

"My boy," Oleg breathed after recovering from a joke only he understood, "you are building a farm, I will lend you some gold and you can repay me later… By Ysmir, you can just repay my son if I die before, it's not like you can run off one morning, we are going to be neighbors for a long time…"

Stubborn just blinked, as awe-stricken and speechless as when he'd woken up. "That's… Very kind, I don't think anyone's ever…" He shook Oleg's hand firmly. "That's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me, Oleg, I won't forget it."

And the three left for a carriage, waiting by the road almost a hundred meters away, Jorik and Sturnbjorn taking seat in the back while Oleg held the reins.

"So," began the boy "How old awe yew?"

"I'm twenty-two, and you?"

"Eleven!" He announce with pride. "Where are you from?"

"I was born in Solstheim, but grew up in Riften."

"Soul-stain? What is that?"

Stubborn explained that he had not the slightest idea, except that it would be some kind of island and he had spent the first month of his life there before the fishing became harder and his parents had to move out.

"Ah!" Exclaimed Oleg, "So your parents were fishermen?"

This earned a short snicker from the redhead boy, "They've been everything from farmers to thieves… Never been any good at any of those."

"What about parents?"

Sturnbjorn frowned, "What do you mean?"

Oleg kept quiet for a moment, wondering what he meant exactly. It had sounded like a good joke to on the moment, but now it occurred to him it might strike a raw nerve…

"I mean, how were they as parents?"

The young Nord's first instinct was to tell Oleg to mind his own business, but the man meant well and it really was not such a big issue. "Not great."

"And where are they now?"

"Gone." There was no emotion in Sturnbjorn's voice, just a flat word, hollow and meaningless.

"I'm… Sorry." Oleg wanted to find a hole and hide in it, envying Jorik for not comprehending a single thing of this embarrassing dialogue. "How did they..." He trailed off, unable to stop talking even though every piece of his mind told him to change the subject.

"They emptied the safe and rented a boat back to Solstheim the moment I reached fifteen. I guess they moved back to their old life."

Oleg grunted out a sympathetic reply and kept his mouth shut for the remainder of the trip.

Once in Whiterun, he gave Sturnbjorn an heavy purse containing exactly "somewhere between two hundred and four hundred septims" and told him to go find some clothes while he and Jorik met with Jarl Balgruuf.

The market buzzed with activity, purses like his jiggling everywhere, in plain sight on counters and hanging from belts. It would be so easy to snatch all the gold he could ever want and just have someone else build his home…

But he shook off the thought and pushed his way through the mob, half naked and smelling of two days' hard labour. People parted before him like water before a warship. The stall he stopped by was filled furs and meat, but also leather and arrows. He bought a sober, dull grey and padded hunting armor, made out wolf leather lined with fur, a black cloak and work gloves, the whole for just over a hundred septim.

Except there was no purse hanging from his belt, only a small rope, its edges smooth where a paper thin blade had cut them.

"Hang on to these for me," Sturnbjorn told the wood elf manning the store, "I'll be right back."

The huntsman grinned and nodded, leaning forward to enjoy the show.

How do you find a pickpocket in such a packed crowd? Why, my dear friend, you need but ask!

"Dragon!" Roared the Nord, a thin smile playing on his lips, "Scatter!"

Everyone suddenly spread out, getting away from one another like they were all lepers, before bowing and . When someone has just committed a crime, they are tense, but a skilled thief will know not to let it show and fight off all his instincts to appear unassuming. Only, this means they take a bit longer to react when something unexpected occurs.

A lone figure remained frozen in place while everyone scrutinized the sky. The man sighed under his cloak as Sturnbjorn crossed the ten steps between them.

"And this," Called the boy, pulling eight leather bags full of coins from pockets hidden in the thief's cloak, "Is how you catch a pickpocket, ladies and gentlemen!" And he brandished his own purse and dragged the man over to the well at the center of the market, where he lined up every other piece of his loot before finally letting go of the thief's collar, "Now I want you to tell me exactly who each of these belong to."

The man was in his thirties, an artist, and that's what betrayed him, as a novice would have just run away, like many others in the market, the moment he heard some ruckus.

In short, "I don't know you," He spoke, his tone dark, "but I hate you already."

By then, four city guards were investigating the situation, but kept their distances, enjoying the thief's humiliation as much as everyone else.

"Well, I don't hate you," Stubborn replied, still smiling… But then his smile vanished, "But if these coins aren't returned to whom they belong in forty seconds, I might dislike you, and right now, I'm the only thing that stands between you and a mobbing."

The thief nodded once, his face still hidden by the hood, and personally gave back everything he'd stolen. Then, Sturnbjorn turned to the guards and sucked in a deep breath.

"I think this concludes today's demonstration, how about we let the artist go home and grab some rest?" He spoke, pulling off the man's hood so the guards could get a good look at his face.

"You mean let him go? A thief?" One of the Jarl's men spoke, not quite sure about that idea.

"A thief?" Stubborn took on an offended air, "Why, I don't think anything has been stolen today?" He smiled affably, "Besides, I'm sure our friend learned his lesson, haven't you?"

The other nodded, his jaw clenched and cheeks burning in anger and humiliation.

"See? And he can tell all his friends Whiterun isn't the best audience for these kind of illusion shows…"

The guard laughed under his helmet, "Alright, alright, you've made your point, let me just take him in for the night, so he knows what'll wait for him if he comes back here…"

Sturbjorn shrugged and turned back to his new friend, extending a hand, "No hard feelings, right?"

The other took his hand with an expression close to disgust, then the guards took him away and a few people in the market cheered the young Nord, as much for catching the thief as being so kind to him. He hadn't, only had he been too harsh or gotten him killed, the Thieves' guild might have sought retribution, trouble Sturnbjorn could do without at the moment.

When he went back to the wood elf's stall, the price was twenty septims lower, and he got a small hunting knife from the old lady manning the adjacent stall, free of charge and with a pat on the back as bonus.

The priest of Kynareth let him use an alcove of the temple to put on his new outfit, somewhat similar to that of the thief, and he sat by the dead three, facing some Talos preacher, while waiting for Oleg to come back from Dragon's reach.

"By the eight," mumbled the young man, lounging on the bench to look at the sky, "I'd just sleep a hundred years…"

Blue and while… and dull brown from the tree… Filled his vision and he pictured himself as a falcon, jumping from a cloud to the next, gliding in the wind, unhindered by walls and rivers…

He imagined the vertiginous dive to catch a prey, the whole world narrowing to a tunnel, just you and your target, inching closer, unaware, until it sees your shadow, and when it looks up…

"Young sir, the Jarl wishes to see you." The Steward appeared in Sturnbjorn's sight, shattering the boy's daydream.

He felt as though his back was fused to the bench and had to use both hands to pull himself up. The Steward left as soon as he'd put both feet on the ground, though Stubborn took a moment to bury his face in both hands. He hadn't slept at all that night and they were nearing the middle of the day… And his limbs were still painful.

When he finally looked up, it was to see an half naked woman with green paint on her face, looking at him severely.

"Hi?" He grunted, feeling horribly tired right now.

"I know what you are." Spoke the middle aged warrior in a flat tone.

He should have been afraid, but was too tired there and then to care, "Oh, fine, you caught me, I admit it; I'm actually a skeever in disguise!"

"You're a thief." She accused, earning herself an amused if puzzled look.

"Oh, then disregard the skeever thing. A thief then? Because of that thing back at the market?"

Her nod was solemn and unequivocal. His laugh was short and dripping with sarcasm.

"You don't know a thing, then, and I would suggest you refrain from insulting people you don't know a thing about in the future, I'm a good person, but actual thieves are not."

She smiled, baring her teeth in a feral way that sent chills down the boy's spine. "I'm not afraid of you."

"And I'm very afraid of you," He admitted, self-preservation suddenly kicking in, "but, as I said, I'm no thief, and I'm not a bad man."

Her smile lost some of its ferociousness and she took a closer look at him… Sniffing him, almost?

"No," she conceded after a moment, "you're not. My apologies for making assumptions, just stay out of trouble in the future, not everyone is as easily convinced as I am."

With a nod, he left and it took every ounce of his will not to just run up the stairs screaming for his life.

He entered Dragonsreach pale as a ghost, but had regained a healthy tint by the time he reached the Jarl's throne.

"Ah!" Greeted Balgruuf, Oleg and Jorik waiting in a corner, "My newest citizen! I hear you have what should have taken ten men ten days to do on your own in a single day…" His warm smile vanished and he leaned closer, Sturnbjorn being scrutinized for any trace of deceit for the third time that day, "Tell me, did you receive any… outside help?"

He thought about it hard, then answered, truthfully, "Except for my cow, no, Jarl Balgruuf."

Satisfied, the Jarl nodded and his smile returned, "Ah! See Proventus? This! This is what it means to be a true Nord! Hard work and honesty!"

The Imperial advisor morosely agreed and began pretending Stubborn was invisible.

"Now, I have been hearing good things about you, from the market, you put on quite a show there…"

The young Nord cleared his throat and choked out an apology.

"Don't be sorry, my boy! You handled the situation well, better than one could reasonably expect, and I wanted to reward you… No, don't interrupt me! I'm not doing this out of kindness. These are trying times and everyone is… Strung out. I want my people to know how you handled this situation and, by rewarding you, I want them to know I approve of such attitude. Do you understand?"

Sturnbjorn shook his head, "No. But I'm a bit tired, so do not take it personal, my Jarl."

Balgruuf scoffed and nodded, "But of course, let me put this simply;

I want my people to handle such problems in a calm and reasonable manner, by rewarding you now, I send them a message that I approve of what you did… But enough about the whys and more about the whats."

Indeed; "What?"

"Do you like dogs, Stubborn?" Asked the Jarl, with a sideway glance to Oleg.

The redhead thought about it, then shrugged, "I prefer them docile, sir, why?"

I took a certain kind of man to joke with a Jarl… "Because I have a litter of wolf-dog hybrids specially bred for me from Ice wolves and huskies and trained as war hounds, I will let you pick one, whichever you want, they are already trained and will be fully grown in a few months."

"War hounds… On a farm, milord?" That would be asking for trouble… And wolf-dogs to boot! He almost wanted to ask for coins or a horse. Shor, a goat would do as well!

That question amused the Jarl far more than it should have, though he had enough restrain not to openly laugh at the poor boy.

"Sturnbjorn, why do you think your farm was abandoned for so long? Just take the mutt, you will need it."

A fair point. A few minutes later, the Jarl and his Housecarl took the Nord farm boy deeper into the fortress, to something halfway between a stable and a dungeon, with dummies being torn apart by massive dogs wearing armors on top of their already ample furs.

There were six of them, but only five actually followed the attack orders, the fifth and biggest just sat there, growling at the newcomers, and whimpered when the trainer, dressed in full plate armor, gave it a solid whack with a stick. Sturnbjorn stopped and stared and the dog growled at the man, who grew angrier and proceeded to kick the beast in the ribs.

"Bornjolf…" Jarl Balgruuf growled, having obviously already discussed the man's techniques in the past.

"Just… A… Second… My Jarl…" Spoke the man, in between blows, the dog now curled in a corner, whimpering out in fright as its brothers and sisters looked on, ears flattened in distress, but too afraid to do anything.

In Riften, when he lived in the streets, Sturnbjorn had often been on the receiving end of such beating...

The trainer yelped as he was shoved aside, not even worth threatening. "Here…" Whispered the farmer, approaching the dog slowly, his hand held out flat for it to smell, "It's over…" The beast still shook and limped forward, ears flattened and hairs standing out in terror.

"Watch out! She's dangerous!" Yelped the trainer, still unable to get off his back.

As if understanding the man's words, it began wagging its tail enthusiastically and practically rammed itself sideways into Stubborn's open arms, twisting its neck to lick his face.

Irileth, the Jarl's Housecarl, cocked an eyebrow at the display of affection, and helped the trainer back on his feet. "What's with that one?"

"I… I don't know!" Cried the confused man, "She's got too much wolf in her, I was going to put her down… I… It's like she thinks he's a wolf or something."

Somehow, Sturnbjorn's mind went back to that woman, the one with paint on her face. The wolf-dog had sniffed him the same way she had… "I'll take this one, if that's alright with you."

"Well, you certainly are an interesting individual," The Jarl thought about it a moment, then found him a title, "Sir Wolf-Heart."

"Wolf-Heart, eh?" He looked down at the overjoyed cub in his arms, "I like it, don't you?" It licked his face. "Yeah, we like it."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: theBSdude: I try, this one is more character driven. In fact, I wanted it to be a webcomic at first. Then I remembered I can't draw.**

**Yeghishe: Here it is!**

**Y-ko: Never heard of. Googled him, but I've never seen any of his works. It's worth noting I also write in something resembling a wheelcart...**

With his new dog and Jorik chasing each other around the legs of passerby, Sturbjorn and Oleg went back to the market and arranged for enough clay, hay and stones to be delivered to the boy's farm. They spent the day chasing down carriage drivers to make the delivery, workers to load and unload the goods and haggling prices with everyone they met, Oleg showing himself to be a fierce if somewhat rude negotiator, despite his usual soft tone and friendliness.

By the end of the day, with a few minutes before the markets closing, Sturnbjorn purchased provisions for a short time, mostly dried meat, but also some fresh fruits and a basket of eggs for his… Dinner? Supper? Next meal, whichever one that would be.

He loved eggs, more than sweetrolls even, but hadn't had a chance to eat some in years. Too expensive, not filling enough. Buying some now had been a bit of a treat, but he decided he'd earned the right to eat actual food after years of half rotten fruits and horker meat. With some milk, he could even make an omelette!

Keeping his "treasure" against his chest in case anyone bumped into him on the way out of the market, Stubborn felt truly giddy for the first time in years, and that brought a smile to Oleg's face as he followed behind the boy's energetic strides.

As he neared the town's gate, the guards waved at him, recognizing his face from the market, and congratulated him again on catching that thief before opening the gate. It seemed luck was finally on the Nord's side, after years of suffering and disappointment…

"WULD NAH KEST!"

A blur of brown and grey sped through the gates, knocking both Oleg and Sturnbjorn on their back along the way, but never stopping a second.

Luck being a cruel mistress, Sturnbjorn got to watch all eight eggs soar out through the air and even managed to catch one, but was foiled by his own reflexes and crushed the thing in his grip.

For a full minute, he watched his hand, dripping with clear and yellow liquid, and the seven spots of sticky yellow on the rocky road.

The childish part of his brain, brought forth by his lack of sleep, almost convinced him to try and salvage the liquid on the ground. There was a time when he would not have had second thought about it, but that time was long gone. He wiped his fingers on the front of his leather pants and took Oleg's hand, rising back on his feet with a stoic expression on his face.

"Are you alright?" Asked the old man, concern evident in his eyes.

Casting a look at the now vacated market, Stubborn answered, "Oleg, my friend, I swear I could just cry right now…"

He actually looked sympathetic as he squeezed the boy's shoulder, "How about I invite you over tonight? My wife will cook you something."

But the other shook his head, "I would love that, thank you, but I have a house to build and sleep to catch, another time, perhaps."

Oleg nodded, smiling once more, "Another time it is…" Then he approached a guard to inquire on just what had happened.

"Damned Dragonborn," Groaned the soldier, clearly having had this discussion many times before, "can't seem to go around like the rest of us folks…"

"Next time," Jorik called from the back, pulling the cart full of Sturnbjorn's provisions, "I'm twipping him."

They left Whiterun's walls and, as they descended towards the stable, the redhead Nord began giggling uncontrollably.

Jorik did the same, but eventually asked what they were laughing about.

"No need to trip him, I'll just hang ropes at shoulder height all over the city. Next time he tries to go that fast, in the dark, he'll be sent spinning in the air, and if it's on top of the stairs, above the market, he might just fly right into the wall…"

Jorik laughed at that, but Oleg just threw his friend a questioning look, as if asking 'Where did you get that idea from?'

The dog barked happily at the change of mood and trotted in between Sturnbjorn and Jorik, wagging its tail in rhythm with its steps.

"Quite a ferocious beast the Jarl gave you…" Noted a guard as they walked by, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Found a name for it yet?" There was genuine curiosity in that question and Stubborn stopped to think about it.

Somehow feeling it was the center of attention, the dog sat on its haunches and let out a long, insistent howl that was answered by its own echo in the mountain.

Only the echo did not stop and only amplified until everyone in the vicinity stopped to look at the dog, then to the snow caps across the plains. The rising chorus of blood curling wails only rose with every moment, amplified by the acoustic of the hold.

It took a full minute after the wolf-dog had ended its scream for the answers to stop as well.

The last echo reached them distorted, almost like a human voice whispering insistently. "Ah-Luu…"

"I think I'll call her Aleu…" Nobody objected and most were quite glad that he took the beast with him in the carriage. Only once they were well out of earshot from the town did Oleg finally explode in laugher.

"Did you see their faces?! Oh, my boy, I will cherish this memory until the day I die!"

But Sturnbjorn was just as frightened of his new pet as any other citizen of Whiterun, even Jorik seemed careful with Aleu now. "What in Oblivion happened?"

Oleg had to wipe tears from his eyes before replying, "You see, Whiterun was built in a plain, but is surrounded by mountains."

"I noticed."

He ignored the boy's sarcasm and went on, "So, when wolves out in the wild howl, the mountains keep the sound out, when your… Al-hey-you?"

Stubborn already regretted that name, "All-Who."

"Right, when Aleu spoke her mind…" Oleg turned to face the pup, who wagged her tail in response, "Very well done there, young lady." And he went back to Sturnbjorn, "The mountains kept the sound in. It just bounced around in here until the girl was done talking."

That piqued Wolf-Heart's interest, "How are you so sure of this?"

But Oleg never lost his joyful demeanor, "Back when that dragon attacked the watchtower, it sounded as though the roars came from everywhere at once, so I asked some hunters and they told me about the mountains…"

Good enough. They remained quiet for a few minutes, Aleu jumping on and off the cart to chase after rabbits and foxes, bringing back two hares and the remains of a rat as presents for Jorik and Sturnbjorn.

This brought Oleg to another topic, "Tell me, boy, do you hunt?"

The Nord wanted to say yes, but decided killing whatever tries to kill you did not count as hunting, more like fishing with a human bait. "No, never fired a bow in my life, actually."

This seemed to shock his friend, "Really? What about swords? You know how to fight?"

Wolf-Heart again shook his head, red climbing to his cheek, "I know how to swing an axe and fight with my fists, but other than that, I never held a blade in my life."

The old Nord thought about it for half a minute before dismissing it altogether, "Chest thumping Nord nonsense aside, I suppose there is honor in not spilling others' blood…" He trailed off, before once again feeling the need to fill the silence. "You say you know how to use your fists?"

"Back when I lived in Riften," He explained, "I paid a Kahjiit merchant so he would teach me how to defend myself. Foolish waste of money, fists are no match for a dagger… Or an axe."

"Aye," Agreed Oleg, nodding with enthusiasm, "but anyone who mistakes you for an easy prey will be disappointed, am I right?"

Sturnbjorn grinned and said, as much to himself as to Oleg, "Very."

That cryptic response seemed to restore the old man's image of him and, as they arrived to the boy's farm, greeted by the sight of two rickety carriages full of clay and stone, Oleg offered to send some of his own workers to help.

"I appreciate the offer," replied the young Nord, shaking Oleg's arm one last time before jumping off, "but that's something I'd rather do myself."

With an understanding nod, Oleg left him to his work and Sturnbjorn sighed at the thought of building this place one rock at a time before being allowed to sleep.

He only now realized some of his money would have been better spent buying a tent.

After throwing whatever saplings and spare branches he could spare into the almost deceased fire in front of his home, as much to ward off the darkness as the cold, even though the wolf skin armour proved quite warm, Stubborn took off his vambraces, tossed his cloak aside and got to work.

Aleu rolled up next to the cow, by the fire, and fell asleep within minutes.

It was simple work; mix clay with water, set up the first row of stones, squeeze the rows between two wooden planks and pour the clay-based cement on top of the whole, until it almost flows over the planks, let dry and repeat until you have something ressembling walls. And don't forget to leave a gap for the door.

Had he been buying the materials alone, Sturnbjorn would likely have bought half what Oleg had gotten delivered. He would have been out of stone and clay five hours into the night.

Morning poked over the horizon by the time he did run out of materials, and by then, he was just being nitpicky about the size and location of his fire pit. Planks had been nailed to the roof, he had built a door out of his old carriage and a stack of hay, meant to plug all these holes in the ceiling, was piled in a corner of the house, a cover thrown over it to make for a decent bed.

Exhausted beyond reasonable thinking, Stubborn decided he needed a pillow and fetched Aleu, the dog never waking up as he carried it inside, but groaning as it was dropped roughly on the hay.

This time, he dreamed. He dreamed of a beautiful woman, of a stunning beauty, but most of her features veiled by an elaborate, ample yet revealing robe and cowl. Her dark skin, soft lips and warm voice seduced the young boy as he struggled to see the rest of her face.

The harder he tried, the less he could see, however, until she was nothing but a mirage in a waterfall.

Bats circled him as he spun around to take in the cave. He could see, but there was no source of light, no ceiling, no floor, just… No, no walls either, he was standing on water, surrounded by waterfalls. The moment he understood that, the Nord was sucked in by the flow, submerged yet able to breathe as the tube he now flew in dragged him to his destiny.

There was relief, comfort in knowing he had nothing to do, no efforts were required of him as forces immensely more powerful drove his fate. Swimming against the flow would have been useless and dangerous… And yet, the bats, actually birds of a kind he had never seen, whispered in his ear that he should try.

"You're a talking bird and this is my dream!" Countered the young Nord, crossing his arm in a childish pout, "Nothing but a dream!"

"Right, and your cow's a better lumberjack than you are, so perhaps you should keep an open spirit… Ah, too late now, good… Luck."

And the tunnel came to an abrupt end, emerging in the night sky over a canyon, a vertiginous fall that sent shivers up his spine and back, but failed to interrupt his sleep. Perhaps upon impact with the ground, he would awake in his home, terrified but unharmed.

The trees down below turned to spikes, rivers turned to lava and clouds became smoke, and Stubborn was inbound for a maw-like cluster of spikes.

Well, he thought, as scary as it is, the impact will kill me before I…

And all thoughts left the boy as his face hit something sticking and unyielding, a net of some kind, one who's nature made no doubt in the dreamer's mind. Spider web.

Struggling to push off the clingy wires, Sturnbjorn found that the harder he fought, the more ensnared he became.

The bird's words came back to his mind and he kept on fighting.

"Yessss…" Whispered a guttural voice, just over his head, "Struggle… Fight… It makessss it sssso much more… Interessssting."

This is my dream! Thought the Nord, trying to make the webs disappear as he felt a presence looming closer, shielding his back from the warm moonlight and sending chills across his body.

"Mortalssss… Sssso arrogant… You exissst because it amusesss usss… How dare you challenge perfect, immortal…"

The voice was now behind his ear. Terror gripped his stomach, chills now running over his whole skin, causing him to tremble like a naked Kahjiit in Winterhold.

Then, the ground was perforated by a giant winged lizard , which rammed into the web on its way into the sky and freed Stubborn of the spider's claws, as well as of his dream.

It took the boy a moment to understand a dragon had actually just crashed in through the roof and torn down the wall at his back before crashing somewhere beyond the dwindling fire.

Aleu went absolutely insane, barking at the darkness, then her shadow, then back to the night when the frantic screams of at least twelve men was heard, their voices and footsteps moving further away.

Wolf-Heart was well prepared to just sit it out and let this solve itself out, but got dressed and grabbed his axe nonetheless.

Nothing would have made the Nord approach the fight. No pleas for help or threats would get him out of his already ruined house. There were no sounds of battle, just laugher and cries of victory, a comforting sound to the farmer… Until a woman's wails of terror, interrupted by a mate sound sent a wave of ice flowing into Sturnbjorn's veins, to drip over his burning skin.

The axe fell to the floor and Aleu, feeling her master's fury, puffed her hairs as much as she could and followed him in past the fire and into the recently plowed field. A knee deep trench had been dug in the ground, ending in a circle of men in sectioned armor, Blades… And a naked woman.

She had the dark skin of a Redguard and short silver hairs common in Nords, though her eyes were those of a Dunmer, yellow and narrow, and two rows of horns ran along her head, joining in her back, reminding the boy of an Orc or Argonian.

The Blades, eight men, four women, took turn beating up the strange woman, who simply curled in a ball and cried in pain at every blow.

Sturnbjorn yelled something, though he couldn't say what exactly, it might not even have been words, and everyone took a step back in surprise.

He knelt by the woman and inspected her injuries. Some bruises, a broken arm and her left eye was swollen shut, the right one looking around wildly in confused terror.

"What happened?" Aleu took her master's words for a growl and answered with a snarl of her own.

"This is none of your business, citizen..." The eldest of the Blades spoke, taking a threatening step forward. Sturnbjorn noticed the man had started unfastening his armor at the waist and, suddenly, did not care what had happened.

"Are you going to pay for the damages?" He asked, all business and affable despite shaking in fear and anticipation. He could fight well enough, but against twelve dragon hunters and with only an adolescent wolf-dog hybrid to help him…

This question took the men and women aback. "Uh… No?" Was the general reaction.

Stubborn shrugged. "Then this lady here owes me, and until she's repaid her debt…" The affability in his tone vanished, "You are not touching her."

They laughed at that bravado and kept on snickering when their leader, sword in hand, approached to defiant young man. "Do you know what that… Thing is? This individual alone enslaved thousands, murdered hundreds of thousands. Is it really worth throwing your life away?"

The answer came by itself. "No, it is not…" The old man smiled and Sturnbjorn deftly kicked the sword out of his hand before kneeing him in the groin, "But killing you might just be."

And with that, he grabbed the man by the back of his armor and put that brand new hunting knife to good use, its razor sharp steel blade biting slightly into the Blade's jaw as Stubborn used him as a shield.

"Drop the steel, everyone, or your friend here will lose some weight." They took a moment to obey, so Wolf-Heart plunged his blade deep in the man's left butt cheek and sliced off a chunk the size of his hand before throwing it at Aleu, along with the bluish cloth that went with it.

The dog swallowed it in one gulp. Eleven swords clattered in a pile on the floor, the noise of their fall buried under the agonized howls of Sturnbjorn's hostage.

"Now what?" Asked one of the women. Clearly maneuvering away from the others so she could get outside the foolish young Nord's field of vision.

"You kill him, we'll kill you, what do you think will happen next?" Pointed out another man.

Indeed, Stubborn had not thought that far. He'd once again been reminded of his own experience in the streets of Riften and his mind had shut off. Now, it was back in action and working hard to find a solution.

The Blades were spreading out in a half circle, surrounding him and now close enough to jump in the moment he took his blade off the hostage's neck.

So, he slit the man's jugular and dove for his discarded blade, snatching it off the muddied ground just in time to block an overhead swing from the man who'd spoken last. Blocking with the right hand, he used this opportunity to dig his hunting knife in between his attacker's throat and collar bone. The other just kicked him in the face and ripped to small blade out.

Two more Blades arrived and pinned Sturnbjorn's arms to the ground while the third readier himself for another overhead blow, this time meant to decapitate the helpless farmboy.

This left the Blade's neck exposed and Aleu wasted no time taking it from him, along with vocal cords and amygdales, all of which she scoffed down with enthusiasm as three words shook the ground closer to the house:

"YOL TOR SHUL!"

Seeing how Aleu had him sighted as a suitable chew toy, the man holding Sturnbjorn's right arm was forced to let go and scurry to his feet.

Now alone with one Blade and no reinforcement in sight, Stubborn gave the elite warrior a radiant smile and proceeded to break all his fingers. He then put both his thumbs on his enemy's eye sockets and pushed.

Eyes are solid, much more resilient that they look, and they have a sandy texture on the inside once you burst them… All of this, Sturnbjorn learned on the spot, analyzing his enemy's gruesome death with cold detachment, and a little fascination.

It is only after both his palms were crushing the Blade's eyelids that the poor bastard stopped moving, life leaving his body in a series of spasms and a violent bowel movement that would likely help fertilize the field.

Four down… None to go. Everyone else, having gone after the girl, had been turned to charred corpses. The mysterious lady herself trying clumsily to walk on all four, sometimes flapping her arms in an attempt to, apparently, take off like a bird.

Fire lazily spread through the grass, but soon choked to nothing but a reddish glow and harmless grey smoke.

His mind empty, unable to process that chaos that had been brought upon his new home, Sturnbjorn stepped right through the dying blaze and stood square in front of the completely insane woman.

"So," He spoke, still numb but slowly taking in the reality of what had just transpired as adrenaline wore off, "Why are you naked?"

The stranger threw him a dirty look, filled with hate and disdain, "You dare address me, Joree?"

He knelt, so they were eye to eye, "My name is Sturnbjorn Wolf-Heart and I just saved your life, so I will address you as much as I bloody want. What's your name?"

"I am Briinahkrent." She spat her name out as if it were an insult.

She again tried to fly away, but took a good hard look at her thin golden arms and hissed like an angered Argonian.

"Can you walk?" Stubborn felt ridiculous asking this, but nothing else came to mind.

"What does it look like I'm doing?!" Indeed, she slowly and clumsily crawled away, her bum raised high in the air. The Nord could not resist and gave it a light push with the tip of his boot, sending the insane woman rolling forward with curses in a language he could not understand.

"You were saying?" He spoke, kneeling next to her muddied, bloodied and ash-plastered head.

"FUS!" And he found himself flipping backward in the ashes.

Aleu gave him some moral support, licking his face clean, but the memory of her eating a man's butt somewhat ruined the moment.

The dog suddenly perked her ears and looked off in the direction of Whiterun. Dawn was still a distant thought and in the dark plain of Whiterun, someone was bound to notice all that ruckus.

Running over to his personal belongings, a dozen meters from the bird woman, Sturnbjorn got his hand on a few blankets and his new cowl, which he quickly brought to the stranger.

"Put these on." He ordered, not exactly eager to explain the dead Blades and odd woman on his land.

"No!" The mere thought seemed to repulse her, so he tried to put them on anyway, but the girl had no intention of letting him and began clawing at him, shoving and kicking like a wild animal as he wrapped her chest in Deer pelt. Since she kept trying to remove it and bit his jugular, Sturnbjorn opted to pin her arms with one hand, sit on her waist and work with his free hand.

Only when she stopped struggling and looked up did the boy realize they were now bathed in torchlight, a short distance from the road.

"Oleg." He greeted, recognizing the man who lead a dozen more, all armed with torches and pitchforks. Looking down at the beaten up, half naked woman and discarded clothes all over the area, Wolf-Heart realized how odd this would look and immediately climbed off his 'victim'.

"Stubborn." The old man said the word in a different fashion, with sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"It's not what it looks like…"

But the woman butted in, "It's exactly what it looks like!" She cried, ripping off the pelt and loosing he balance in the process. She remained there sitting in the ashes and continued, "This vokul joree is trying to dress me up like I'm some Bron female!"

"I see…" Came Irileth's voice from further back, "And who is this?"

Sturnbjorn chose honesty, "I have not the slightest idea, Housecarl, I merely wanted her to preserve some dignity when your people arrived."

Oleg looked at the demolished house, confused but back to seeing Stubborn as one of the good guys. "She did all this?"

This time, honestly seemed like a bad move, so he made something up on the spot and hoped Brii… Whoever… Just kept her mouth shut. "A fight between Blades and a dragon did this. This traveler was already here, seeking shelter for the night. After we drove the dragon away, with her help, the remaining Blades decided to…" He did not have to fake his anger at the next passage, and this made his story seem all more real, "Poor girl has had a very rough night…"

Oleg and the Housecarl, along with some city guards, decided to stay for the night, in case that dragon came back, and Sturnbjorn just threw his coat at the naked stranger's face. "For when you get cold. Have a safe trip."

And he sat by the fire with everyone else, bringing some logs to sit on and apologizing for being unable to offer them more than some fruits, horker meat and milk. It took about five minutes for Aleu and the odd woman to join them. The girl had tried to put the cloak on, but seemed unable to put her arms through the holes, let alone tie a knot at the neck and belt.

Without a word, Sturnbjorn left his seat, removed the clothe from her back and gently pushed her arms, one after the other, into the holes, then fastened both thin ropes to finally cover up his guest. She never looked him in the eye, nor did she say a word.

One guard offered a piece of horker, which she gladly tore into, and asked, "What race are you? Never have I seen your likes…"

"I am a dragon."

And, it all feel in place inside Sturnbjorn's exhausted mind. Stories said the Dragonborn had defeated Alduin by learning an ancient shout that turned dragons mortals. If you could change a being's soul through the Thu'um, changing its body must not have been such a challenge. Put this power in the hands of nearly genocidal religious fanatics and you were bound to end up with…

That train of thought had to be cut short as the boy salvaged the situation, "She means Dragonborn. The rest is a touchy subject, it would seem…"

There were a few uneasy nods around the fire. The dragon tried to argue, but fell asleep midsentence, wrapping her arms around and cuddling a very uneasy Aleu. The dog tried growling, kicking and nibbling, to no avail, and finally accepted her fate with a long groan.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The-killer-of-007: Oh, this is just the start.**

**Five thousand words a day is hard to proof read, any beta readers out there think they can keep up?**

It was rather late in the night when Irileth decided to go inspect the corpses of the Blades. While she was gone, Oleg told the guards about Sturnbjorn's earlier confession, about not knowing how to fight.

One of them, helmet on her lap, scoffed at that, "You say you can't fight? There are four Blades back there that would likely disagree."

Squirming in embarrassment, the boy explained Aleu had done most of the work. Everybody turned to the puppy, now deeply asleep despite the unwanted bed buddy. It whined but never woke up.

"Right…" Spoke the guard, unimpressed, "So you took them all on with your fists and a dog? No help from anyone?"

Oleg stepped in before Wolf-Heart could answer, the bearded Nord's massive hand almost knocking the woman off her seat when he tried to attract her attention. "What do you suggest?" He asked, annoyance evident in his voice.

Massaging her now sore shoulder, the guard shook her head in thought. "I'm not suggesting anything, it just seems to me a mere farmer should not have had the strength to fight four Blades after fending off a dragon…" Her eyes, distrustful but honest, settled on Sturnbjorn and he squirmed once more, looking at his boots. "No offense."

"I admit, it is surprising you would take such risks." Oleg begrudgingly agreed, having noticed his friend's unease.

Tsdawhey thought him insane for facing four warriors. In truth, they had been twelve , what would they say about that? The reason behind his temerity remained the same, however.

"There are things a man cannot walk away from." He spoke, looking the guard straight in the eye, remnants of his earlier fury climbing back up, "Back in the streets of Riften, I was faced with the worst society has to offer. What can a boy do in that case except watch and pray someone has the courage to do something. Now, I'm no boy anymore, and I'm done praying."

He spread his arms, encompassing the small, wrecked house, the ruined field and the fire itself.

"This is my home, I won't pretend to make the rules, but if a rabid dog wanders on my property, it is my right and duty to put it down before it spreads its sickness." He jerked his thumb toward Irileth and the corpses, but said nothing else.

Nobody added a thing, but Oleg made his approval clear with a series of energetic nods. Then the Housecarl came back and told something to the helmet-less guard, who threw the redhead Nord a fugitive glance before leaving the fire to inspect the corpses herself.

Irileth took her place in between Oleg and Sturbjorn and, though trying to hide it, made sure not to let the young man out of her sight.

Her subordinate came back, pale as snow, and gladly took Irileth's seat across the fire, out of Stubborn's sight.

This was not lost on the Nord, who decided he'd had enough when yet another guard left the fire to go look at the dead bodies.

"Okay, tell me, what seems to be the matter?"

The Housecarl ignored him and he knew better than to push the issue, but the third guard came back, face hidden by his mask, and walked up to Sturnbjorn hesitantly.

"Did…" He swallowed when the boy's head turned from the fire to him, "Did you cut off a man's butt?"

Is there a right answer to such a question? Some humorous comeback to make it more socially acceptable? If so, Wolf-Heart failed to find one. "I tried to scare them away, intimidate them."

A poor excuse, but the only one he could find.

Nobody brought up the brutal deaths dealt to his foes, and having slept through the previous day and some of the night, Sturnbjorn decided to get to work fixing his roof with pieces from his old carriage.

There was a horse-sized hole in the wall, however, and though the stones were intact, he was all out of clay to hold them in place. After some internal debate, he opted to use one of the rickety carts used to bring stones from Whiterun and patch his home until he had the septims to have it fixed.

He worked at it all night, nailing planks together until the patch ended up as thick as the wall and in the same W shape. With the thing in place, he nailed it to the roof with twin vertical planks and had horizontal ones run across the wall's length, both inside and outside.

By morning, tired but still in the mood for some carpenter work, he took apart the last cart and turned it into random furniture, starting with a knee high frame on which he threw every animal pelt, blankets and clothes he owned. Beds were too soft for him, but the unconscious dragon woman seemed to enjoy it when he carried her to it.

Oddly enough, Aleu followed her captor into the bed and snuggled close to her.

"You have attachment issues, little one." Spoke the Nord with a thin smile. Aleu's blue eyes appeared to glow in the dim morning sunshine, filtering in from the ceiling, as she seemed to return the compliment.

This… Thing he sheltered had enslaved his people centuries ago, and it would have killed him without pause or remorse. Why not get rid of it now? Earlier, he acted for selfish reasons, never once thinking of the woman's safety. He saw his childhood monsters in those dragon hunters, and somehow, after all the changes his life had seen in the past few days, his time honed instinct to ignore such feelings had not kicked in.

Now, this dragon was at his mercy; weak, soft and vulnerable, just as the creator of whatever shout had been used intended. Maybe it would stay that way, but there was little reason to think the spell would last forever, and when it did wear off… Killing the beast now slowly appeared as the one and only option offered to the Nord.

What else could he do? Teach her to walk and act like a Nord, then hope she took a liking to him by the time her true form resurfaced?

She was thin, almost sickly. Of course, this new form would not have much muscles, why would it? But this served Wolf-Heart's purpose, as her neck would break like a twig. Then, he could tell the others, already fast asleep by the fire, she had died in the night, or just tell them the truth, they would understand!

Aleu's eyes never left him and his never left the sleeping dragon…

Five… Six… Seven. Seven years already since he had found himself in that same situation. One life, a simple thing, standing between him and all he could ever want. He'd conquered the darkness, twisted the minds of foes and friends, broken his enemies, now there was one last obstacle.

He knelt by the sleeping dragon and placed a hand on her dirty forehead. His hand felt warm in comparison… Sturnbjorn put his other hand on her neck, just under the jaw.

Strong pulse, no fever and no shaking. Her injuries looked bad, but would heal with time.

A spider the size of his thumb climbed out of her hair to scale his hand. He took it in his palm and brought the hand close to his face.

"This is how mortals are superior to you," he told the hairy creature, "We are who we chose to be." And he shut his hand in a tight fist, finding nothing but dust on its palm once he opened it again.

For the first time since meeting her, Sturnbjorn actually worried about the dragon; her broken arm remained twisted in an odd angle, made worst by her attempts to walk on it. He delicately twisted it back in place and built a cast with rope and bits of wood. A healing potion would speed up recovery, but he had none at hand.

The girl never woke up, but sweat formed on her forehead and her dreams became agitated.

Next, he tracked down his new hunting knife in the field, the morning sun casting a fresh perspective on the massacre that had taken place outside. It also revealed to the Nord that his clothes and hands were still drenched in blood, mud and ashes. He would take a bath as soon as his work was done.

Sterilizing his blade in the campfire's reddish glow took merely a minute, two for it to cool down, but Sturnbjorn stayed long enough to greet Oleg and a few guards as they rose from their rollbeds, confused and tired, all but Stern-Hearth, who awakened fresh as a daisy and ready for the ride back to his farm. He did, however kick everyone else awake before leaving.

The Housecarl and half her guards had left as Sturnbjorn worked, earlier in the morning, and the remaining men soon realized they were not in Whiterun's casern. They politely declined Stubborn's offer for breakfast and left him alone to deal with the corpses and everything else.

Before heading back to his house, however, he fetched a sewing kit from his belongings. A single needle and about two meters of silky filament made up all of his knitting supplies, but Sturnbjorn needed nothing else.

He cut on the dragon's purplish and swollen cheek, draining the accumulated blood before sewing the wound shut and repeating the process just above her eyebrow.

The bruise would remain, but at least she could open her eyes now.

Which she did not.

Sturnbjorn knew little about the Thu'um, or magick in general, but certainly she looked as the caster, or shouter, had intended; vulnerable, attractive and not quite human or elf. A victim, intended for nothing but satiating some madman's hunger for retribution. Or perhaps it went further than that, but Stubborn had no details to extrapolate from.

In an aesthetic manner, he found his guest to be stunningly beautiful, but the knowledge of her true nature, and the malevolence hidden by this beauty somehow tarnished it and the boy felt no attraction nor desire whatsoever.

Once again, he did not help her out of kindness. This dragon had freed him from the web of his dreams, broken his chain… Just as his refusal to kill a friend, seven years earlier, had made him the master of his fate.

Whatever this meant, her presence was comforting, as though it warded off the ghosts Stubborn had been carrying around all his life.

With too much enthusiasm given the circumstances, he proceeded to search all twelve Blades, stripping the 'intact' ones of armor and clothes before throwing them in the fire. He only kept a sword for himself, the leader's, the one he'd used to parry a blow during the fight, and threw everything else in a pile which he would trade for actual clothes once the market opened.

With only a single eyeless corpse left to burn, Sturnbjorn took a short water break, eyes wandering the horizon…

And that is pretty much when he noticed a man in dark hooded robes walking down the path to his farm, flanked with… Parrots? Two wood elves so brightly armoured he mistook them for large birds at first glance. Thalmor Justicars. Obviously, things were going so well already!

"By the eight!" he groaned, the three already close enough to hear him, "What is it now?!" Not the best way to greet the genocidal religious fanatics who'd just entered his farm, but remains of the previous ones were still easily identifiable in his massive fire and he had a naked one at his feet. The warning should be clear enough.

Frighteningly, the Thalmor in robes laughed as he ordered his escort to stay back and approached the Nord farmer alone. "Be at ease, my young friend!" The Justicar's tone was friendly, as were his manners as he bowed deeply before Sturnbjorn. "I am Arankar, I see from your eyes you know what I am, but you need not worry, I simply came to verify the rumours, of a lone farmer fending off a dragon and Blades single handed…"His gaze turned to the pile of weapons and armours, near the fire, the to the blinded corpse at Wolf-Heart's feet.

If the gruesome spectacle disturbed him, the wizard hid it well. "Done!" He quipped, his radiant smile widening to a rictus "Rumours of your… Efficiency… Have already traveled halfway across the hold. By tomorrow, it will be thirty blades and you will have killed the Dragon yourself, and in ten years, the bard college will have made this incident into an odyssey."

What could he answer to that? "Let them talk, it will keep bandits off my back."

It was as though the young Nord had just walked straight into a trap and the Thalmor nearly squealed with delight, "Oh, but don't be so sure, the ones at Fort Dunstraad are already planning to kill you, to boost their reputation."

How would a Thalmor know that? He decided to call the Elf's bluff, "Then I won't need to feed my dog this week. What do you want, Arankar?"

"Food!" The wizard grumbled on an equally cranky tone, mocking the Nord's attempt at intimidation.

Stubborn just glared.

"Fine, fine! We want to send a garrison to the old Fort, in case Whiterun is attacked by heretics, but for that, we need food! You are the closest farm and nobody would dare bother you, especially once my agents get to work amplifying your legend…"

Sturbjorn thought of refusing… Actually, accepting never crossed his mind until the Thalmor spoke again, "We would pay you, of course, twice what you would make in the market, guaranteed sale, no need to barter with peasants over the cost of a hen."

Seeing the boy still hesitated, Arankar pulled his final card, "This makes life easier for everyone, otherwise we have to buy from the market using a third party. I simply wish to cut out the middle man, it will not be much more expensive to us, only harder. Nobody has to know…"

Easy gold, a lot of it, and the Thalmor were allies to the Empire, and, by extension, Whiterun. He would commit no crime in accepting this deal, not to mention a man can only have so much enemies. The Blades would come looking for retribution and he would have the Aldmeri Dominion at his back when they did. Only, Oleg, a true Nord at heart, might never forgive such a deception...

"Everybody has to know." Corrected the young farmer, "That is my only condition; no secret, everyone knows you're in the fort and everyone knows I'm feeding you. And they all know I wanted them to know."

They shook hand and, to seal the deal, Arankar had one of his men give Sturnbjorn a chest full of gold. "I suggest you spend this gold growing actual crops, an army is not easy to…"

"Drem yo lok, joree. May I speak to you?" All eyes converged to the dark skinned woman, clad in a wolf skin cloak, her silver hairs glowing in the daylight as she held herself upright against the doorframe.

The two warriors saw nothing wrong with her, but Arankar… "This is… I have never…" Suddenly, he adverted his gaze, removed his hood and bowed even lower than he had for Stubborn. "Forgive me, milady, I meant no disrespect…"

She frowned, annoyed at the wizard's antics, "It is quite.. Ah… Fine. Jorre." She turned to Sturnbjorn, "We must talk. Now." The politeness her words previously held vanished as she lost patience. It was like a spoiled child, throwing a tantrum when her parent failed to afford them their full attention.

"Not yet." He answered, relishing the dark purple of her cheek as anger filled the dragon.

Arankar, still not looking straight at her, cleared his throat. "May I… Would it be offensive if I took a closer look at you?"

She bared her teeth, "Yes, it would." And disappeared in the house… Cursing in dragon speech as something heavy hit the floor. The Thalmor wizard was all over Sturnbjorn in the second.

"What is she?!" He desperately clung to the Nord's armor, "Where did she come from?"

Sensing something odd with the formerly collected wizard's sudden bout of madness, Sturnbjorn decided to find out more before talking, "I will tell you, but only if you tell me why it is so important…"

The Thalmor suddenly regained his spirit and both men glared at one another for a full minute, "You imposed a condition to our deal. Now it's my turn; I will stay here to oversee everything and… Help keep you safe."

"Suit yourself," Called the boy, "but there's no more room in the house."

"No matter."

"And you'll have to follow the rules."

"Done. Do we have a deal?"

And, once again, they had a deal, though the tone this time was not as friendly.


	4. Chapter 4

Arankar left soon after to gather his personal belongings and Sturnbjorn used that opportunity to go chat with his guest. Walking through the makeshift front door, he found her directly to the left, sitting on the bed, her eyes drilling holes in his skull as she watched him make his way to one of two the rickety chairs he'd built with pieces of carriage.

"Can we talk now, Bron?" Spat the fiery young woman.

"Talk away." Encouraged the Nord, sitting down with a thin smile on his lips. A dragon… A magical creature born of Akatosh himself, and he, a mere mortal, was causing it to grow infuriated. It was glorious in a certain way.

"You understand what I am, yes?" Her tone was once again calm and he tried to imagine the words spoken by a giant flying lizard. They just didn't seem to fit, possibly because of the soft, almost juvenile voice.

"I pieced it together." He confirmed, "You're a dragon. An important one, if they bothered to try and humiliate you. Had you been a military leader, they would not have bothered and you would be dead, so you must be a symbol of some sort."

She said nothing for a moment, drawing in long breaths, her shoulder rising every time, as though out of breath. "This body is weak." She finally growled, looking at her own hands, "You must help me get my true form back."

"Oh, do I now? Why is that?"

Their thoughts at that moment were quite similar; both found the other's arrogance to be enraging and both had to refrain from hurting the other out of principle, and both knew the other to be easily capable of killing them.

"Volbonaar joree... I could break your mind and bend you to my will, so when I chose to ask nicely, you should obey." She hissed, once again baring her teeth again.

Sturnbjorn leaned forward, no more humor showing in his eyes, "How long would that shout take? Because I can break your jaw in half a second… And that's if I feel generous."

Briinahkrent had existed long before many of the mountains dotting Skyrim's landscape, her will directed Dragons and mortals alike, cast down empires and instated dynasties, yet this insignificant Nord, a mere footnote in the history of her glory, treated her as though he was equal, worst, superior!

On his end, Sturnbjorn's anger was much simpler, but equally strong; he had given up everything for freedom, to dictate his own destiny, if this ungrateful beast tried to take that away from him, she would join the Blades in that bonfire outside.

Finally, he reminded himself this was not some kind of pet, a stray dog he had picked up on his doorstep, she was his responsibility now and since killing her was not an option…

"I will help you…" He finally said, earning an involuntary smile, but it did not last long, "But only by teaching you how to handle yourself out there, then you are no longer my problem."

Anger, suspicion and curiosity alternated on her face in a rather comical way. He should start by teaching her how to hide her emotions, but decided to keep it for last, this way he would be able to spot any signs of deception.

"And what exactly could a peasant teach a centuries old Dovah?" Smugness on her face mirrored his own expression.

"How to hide in the shadows as well as in a crowd, how to navigate the land, how to manipulate the minds of others to your advantage, how to defend yourself…" He trailed off, pride evident in his posture.

"You are no ordinary peasant, are you?" It was no accusation, merely an observation.

Getting off the chair, he raised shook his head and accompanied every word with exaggerated arm gestures, "Normal? Ah, but there is no such thing! All have their own story, their own set of skills forged by the trials life has thrown at them. My trials took place in a den of thieves and assassins, they shaped me against my will…" He stopped, taking a seat by the dragon and gave her his most radiant smile. "First lesson, lass; We are who we choose to be."

For the ancient being before him, this 'lesson' had all the deepness of an arrow to the knee joke, but as a dragon, she could not resist a philosophical debate. "Hadrim, Sil, Smoliin ahrk Slen. Soul, mind, passions and flesh are but one and the same, trying to deny your nature will only make you miserable."

"Hmm, true, but let's say a thief wants to become a farmer, does that not reveal a part of his nature he did not know about? Remaining set in his way would also be denying his nature, would it not?"

Her laugh would have fitted a student of the bards' college, but not a nation conquering overlord. "All joree are slaves to their impulses, if he became a thief in the first place, then that is his true nature and everything else is merely wishful thinking."

Sturnbjorn nodded and thought about it in silence, his brows furrowed and lips compacted in a thin line. Briinahkrent was startled to realize she found his scruffy orange face and soft eyes aesthetically pleasing and would have used that as an example of the body influencing the soul, were she not so embarrassed by it.

"What if circumstances forced him to become what he is, not personal choice?"

The dragon was glad to have something else to occupy her mind and answered without thinking about it much, "Then it is his own fault for going along with it and he should free himself from the shackles of providence…"

"Then we agree!"

She started at the outburst and his beaming smile, "We… What?"

"We are who we chose to be. If circumstances have driven you to make bad decisions, only you can change who you are… Now give me your hand!" He exclaimed, standing in front of her with his honest, innocent smile, a hand outstretched.

She took it with her good arm and he yanked her closer, earning a startled yelp. "What are you…"

"Stand upright, as straight as you can." He called, holding her hand in his while the other, wraped under her shoulder, kept the dragon from crumbling to the floor.

"How… How should I place my feet?" Already annoyed, she seemed ready to just give up.

"Patience is not your forte, is it? Keep them flat and push in whichever direction you are about to fall…" It worked and, he soon did not have to hold her whole weight, but never let her hand go, taking a step backward. "Good! Now push your other feet forward… No, don't lift it, you don't have the balance yet…"

She took a wobbly step forward and almost fell to the floor, but with a rough pull, the Nord pulled her back in an awkward hug. "This is hopeless, Dovs are not meant to walk…"

"You're not a dove, so shut up and keep trying…" She did and this time, he did not have to catch her. "What is your name again?"

Too focused to be angry at his nonchalance, she muttered behind clenched teeth, "Briinahkrent."

"Right," The Nord repeated the name a few times, "from now on, we will call you Bri. If anyone asks, it's short for Brianna."

That, however, shocked her, "I am not going to change my name because you can't remember it! It is part of my identity!" He ignored her.

They took another step, but Stubborn bumped in his new makeshift table and kicked the thing away, sending it crashing in four distinct pieces across the room.

"You built this?" Asked 'Bri', worry obvious in her eyes.

"Yeah." Another wobbly step.

"What about the house?"

"That too." That did nothing to ease the dragon's mind. She tried to free herself from Sturnbjorn's hand, but he refused to let go. Even when they reached the freshly repaired wall, he only taught her how to spin around and resumed pulling her forward one step at a time until a searing pain shot through her meager leg, sending the confused dragon in a panic.

"What is this!?" She yelled, clutching the injured thigh. The Nord only smiled.

"It's a cramp…" Scooping her off the floor and back on the bed, he explained the nature of her pain, merely a muscle protesting against their intense workout. She would stop getting them after a while.

"Being human is horrible!" Hissed Bri, hot tears now filling her eyes as Sturnbjorn delicately folded and extended the dragon's skeletal limb, she wiped her eyes and let out a frustrated growl, "And what are these?!"

She did not get an answer this time, but whatever he did seemed to work as the pain left as quickly as it had come.

"Keep working on your balance," Instructed Sturnbjorn once she stopped contorting in pain, opening the front door, "Once you can walk, we will buy you a horse and some clothes in Whiterun."

And he left her alone with Aleu, the dog's wide blue eyes never leaving her, as if to make sure she did as instructed.

She did, falling multiple times, pain washing over her broken arm and ribs every time, but the dog's glare and the thought of disappointing that arrogant mortal kept her from giving up altogether. No, not disappointing… She was a child of Akatosh, the opinion of mere mortals couldn't have mattered less to her, she merely did not want to give the Nord the satisfaction of being disappointed in her… Or something like that…

He worked the fields all day, never stopping except for waterbreaks and completely ignoring Arankar when the Thalmor set up his tent within arm's reach of the farmhouse. The Altmer tried to enter said house, but was swiftly denied by Aleu's feral growl. He considered asking the mysterious woman to come out, but decided against it and settled on watching his host at work.

Reports on Sturnbjorn Wolf-Heart were sketchy and contradictory, and none of them had more than three days. According to rumours, the boy did not sleep and did nothing but work, which appeared to be partly true.

This was not a farmer's attitude, however, not the way someone used to long lasting work would go about it.

This Nord had been taught an iron discipline and sense of personal initiative to rival a Dark Brotherhood assassin's, though the brutality and viciousness of his fighting style dismissed the possibility of him being with the Brotherhood or Morag Tong.

Perhaps the rumours, about him being merely an abandoned child from Riften with nothing but raw willpower, were closer to the truth.

Annoyed at the lack of satisfying responses, Arankar retreated inside his tent to seek answers in books.

Only by sunset did Sturnbjorn realize he had gone two days without sleep, and his body was on the brink of breaking down, every muscle aching, every nerve swollen and pulsing. Even his eyes felt dry and raw!

He joined Bri and Aleu in the house and ignored both completely to collapse on his haystack.

No sooner had he closed his eyes that he found himself in a familiar cave, with the same bird and waterfall, only now he stood on a narrow bridge, overlooking a cauldron the size of his house. Something at the bottom glowed slightly, casting opal ribbons on the granite walls of the circular chamber.

The woman appeared, her dark but elaborate dress only increasing the exotic beauty she radiated. Sturnbjorn did not try to take a closer look this time, he merely took a deep breath and let everything he could see sink in.

"So, which one is it?" He spoke, deciding to sit down and let his legs, draped in a light catching fabric, dangle off the bridge.

"Clarify." Commanded the dark figure, displaying no emotion.

"Is it the farm that's cursed or me? For that matter, by whom is it cursed?" He spoke as though this was a casual discussion about the weather.

This seemed to amuse the other, as her next sentence was filled with snide humour, "Now why would anyone curse you, of all people? Is there something you would like to tell me?"

Shaking his head in defeat, Sturnbjorn pushed himself off the bridge, just a meter away from the opalescent water. A cape flapped at his back, thick and of a deep black tint.

Despite its appearance, the water was not calm. No sooner had he touched it that he was wrestled down by a maelstrom of glowing ribbons. His cape swirled around as well, as though swallowing the swirls of light, wrapping itself around the Nord to protect him.

At last, he was brutally ejected from the water and instinct took over as he twisted like a cat, landing on a knee, square in the middle of… A castle?

There was blood everywhere, banquet tables, on which rested mutilated corpses, surrounded him. People dressed in leather, all pale as death, feasted on the warm corpses. Above, standing on an ornate balcony, was a man who's awful burning eyes drilled deep inside Wolf-Heart's soul, relaying one promise; the darkness which had always been Sturnbjorn's friend would soon reign.

And the dreadful lord raised his hand, banishing Sturnbjorn to another realm of dream.

Ashes, lava and smoke filled his vision, the harsh wind blowing hard against him, but his skin protected by the darkness. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he took off, literally, his cape having turned to wings, and swooped over the torn landscape. This was his farm. How he could know that went beyond his comprehension, but he did. Something had burnt it to the ground, burnt all of Whiterun hold, all of Tamriel.

That something came out of the sun, talons bared and diving like a hawk. Sturnbjorn saw its shadow and turned around in midflight, but too late. The dragon tore off his wings and smashed him into the dust, its mouth so close to his face he could feel the beast's warm breath.

Fin briinah krent. The Broken Sister.

The dragon morphed into Bri, sitting on his chest her amused face closing in with his playfully. She landed a kiss on his cheek and, sitting upright, tucked a rebellious strand of metallic hairs behind her ear. "Beautiful, is it not?"

"Why?" He spat, wrestling against her, to no avail.

"Why deny your true nature?" Simply replied the dragon, amused, "I am a destroyer, this is what I was created to do. Yet you, you resist your true self… Why?"

Shoving and kicking the frail woman, without success, he answered, in between desperate escape attempts, "I am who I chose to be."

"You are weak, all of your accomplishments , you owe to Her, to luck. But you are nothing special, and you refuse to embrace…"

She went quiet and looked up, the most complete confusion and dismay painted on her face.

An egg landed square on her face, followed by another and soon it was raining chicken eggs, every centimeters of ashes covered with gooey substances, especially the silver haired woman, having suddenly grown two more arms with which she sheltered her face.

The spider. Again.

"I have phobias I didn't even know about." Mused the boy, getting up despite the egg shower. The things seemed to avoid him entirely and, though it soon formed a small lake, none of it stained his clothes.

Looking back at the brightly colored man who'd hatched from one of many eggs, Sturnbjorn couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

To which the other, twirling his laughing cane, was glad to reply, "Can't have an omelette otherwise… Mind if I have a hit of that?" He nodded to the Skaag tribal axe Sturnbjorn held. The thing doubled as a pipe, its hollow counter-weight linked to the bottom of the handle.

"Certainly!" He gave it to the old man, never questioning where it had come from.

Both men soon found themselves surrounded by the flow of broken eggs, but something kept the tides away and Stubborn's companion showed no sign of worry as he took a long drag on the pipe.

He coughed twice and dispelled the purple smoke leaking from his ears. "By the twelve, you lads sure know how to grow strong Red Grass!"

Sturnbjorn tried it, but being an adept of Red Grass since his early teens, found nothing odd about the smoke he inhaled.

Exhaling, however, was a different story and he watched the soap bubbles leave his mouth with mild puzzlement.

"You're taking this whole situation rather well…" Complimented his friend, trying another puff of Red Grass.

"It's obviously a dream."

"I mean… Agh, this really makes you fly, doesn't it? What was I saying? Right! I meant the dragon, Thalmor stalker and the dog that gets all wolves in the hold ready for war in a single howl…"

Puffing on his pipe for a moment, as though enough Red Grass would clear up the confusion, Wolf-Heart tried to understand why it all seemed so natural to him.

"I think…" He passed the pipe, "I think I just don't care. I don't judge people, everyone has an excuse, everyone is saving the world, all I want is to be left alone. It doesn't matter how noble your cause is, just stay away from me and everyone will be happy."

"Ah, it is seclusion you want! Like some barbarian going off in the wood to ramble freely about when he was governor!"

"Something like that… I'm not sleeping, am I? This is real." Questioned the Nord, suddenly realizing this all made too much sense to be one of his dreams.

"It all depends on what your definition of real is. Will you remember everything in the morning? Nope. Are you actually conversing with the Daedric god of madness? Yes!" The man seemed overjoyed by that fact, "But that's nothing new, whenever there's madness and confusion, you might as well be drinking tea with the chaps!"

They were now in a swirling bubble of white and yellow, slowly filling up with purple smoke. "But enough lollygagging… What does that even mean? Lollygagging. Sounds kinky, doesn't it?"

Stubborn just stared.

"Yes! Now, for the second chance! You say we choose who we want to be and I totally agree, so here I will give you a choice, the same that ruined your promising life, seven years ago…"

He threw him the axe and, with a dismissive motion, changed the scenery to Sturnbjorn's house. Aleu and Bri were asleep on the bed, though, after close examination, he realized it was not Bri, asleep on the bed with his dog, but Valentia, his only childhood friend, the one he had been ordered to murder.

Back then, the order had been so unexpected, so surreal he had believed it to be a joke at first, and then outright refused to do it. His parents returned to Solstheim the next day, leaving him alone in Riften, without any friend as Val was soon 'adopted' by a Thane with specific tastes.

"Kill her." Said the old man, "Correct your mistakes and take back your life… Or don't, I find your current life's wonkiness to be terribly entertaining."

He looked at his new friend, but saw that he was alone in the house. Nobody would see, nobody would know.

"But that's a debate I already settled." He spat, imbedding the tribal axe in the patched wall with a single throw. "I regret nothing." And he went back to bed.


End file.
